Cola Secrets
by Ashes Of The Innocent
Summary: Everyone's got secrets. Especially the Children of Limitless Ability; and these secrets mingled with amazing powers aren't so good…Read and find out what they are...Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so, first off: I'm not posting this on the drabble fic, because, well, I'm not really sure. I guess it's because more fics need to exist in this category (21 _only_! Seriously!). And well, also, because it's sort of different. There will be thousands (hopefully) of chapters on the drabble one, and a limited one on this. Anyway, it's obviously about the Colas' darkest secrets, so there won't be any pairings, and if there will be, then they'll be pretty dark too. Thirteen secrets for thirteen Colas (including Catherine, of course). Some, like this one, might be a few chapters longer, 1 or 2 in the least, and 4 maxium. I think. I'll see. **

**Anyway, I'll be starting wit Darren's because we have no idea about him and it's a hell lot of fun to create things about him which might not even be right. XD Read and enjoy! And review, of course :)**

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_Darren._

1.The true master:

Spook was starting to get worried—his friend was acting even weirder than before.

The redhead had always known that Darren was strange because of his looks and personality and sinister smile. Darren had fully black eyes, which would linger a long time on you, without you having any idea. He seemed normal to everyone else, but to Spook it was more than a little disturbing to have him in his company. Darren was fascinated by all kinds of things—mostly death, blood and fire.

If he could just stay all day staring at the burning flame, he would. It was strange, as if he was seeing something apart from the dying embers. Spook sometimes thought he was seeing some sort of endless war going on in the flickering flames; something only the boy could see.

Darren often went out on walks, alone, even if Dax was outside on a foxtrot. The shapeshifter never sensed or smelled him, for a reason unbeknownst to Spook, but Darren knew too well what it was. Not that he was going to ever tell.

Spook sighed and sat down on the boy's bed, leaning on the pillow. He frowned when he felt something, and searched for the thing, finding a scruffy-looking notebook.

Spook stared at it, confused as to why Darren, so dark although no one but him and said illusionist knew, would have a diary. Diaries had always seemed girly to the boys, especially Darren who was as against them as anyone can get.

_Should I…?_ Spook thought nervously. He could already picture Darren's twisted calmness as he flashed him a grotesque smile. A shudder went through his body, and suddenly something, he didn't know what, made him thrust the worn-out notebook open, his heart beating frantically in his ribcage.

He stared in shock and awe at the scrawled drawings, all made in black ink. The entire notebook was filled with them, all gruesome, strange images. Spook couldn't make out what they were, but a feeling told him they just weren't…normal.

There was one, spirals and spirals all connected to one another, and in spite of the outlines of the twists being in black, the inside of them was coloured in a blood-red.

There weren't any words, just the drawings which Spook simply could not peel his eyes from. They were so weird, so undistinguishable, yet intriguing and abnormal and incredible…

The sound of the door opening behind him made the redhead jump in shock and fear. Darren stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his right hand still on the handle.

"Spook?" he asked in a low voice. Spook gulped and turned round, trying to seem as normal as possible. It wasn't that Darren did anything to him, physically; it was just those eyes which would scare the hell out of him.

"Yeah, Dar?"

"What are you doing?" Darren finally entered in the room, and Spook quickly hid his notebook under a pillow.

"Nothing," he said grinning a bit too over-cheery. "Why would I be doing anything?"

Spook cursed himself mentally – this was simply pathetic. He was a good actor, usually, but with Darren he simply he could not lie. Probably because Darren would always know when he was lying or not.

And the boy could clearly see the fear and guilt in Spook's grey eyes. His own eyes flickered on the pillow Spook had hidden the notebook under and rage contorted on his face. He pushed Spook aside, and hauled the pillow off the bed.

"What...?" he whispered.

"Darren, I—"

"Where did you find it?" Darren growled, spinning round to look at Spook levelly. He was gripping the notebook so tightly that his tanned fingers were turning white.

"Under your – under your pillow," Spook admitted, looking away from Darren's prying and creepy eyes.

Darren remained silent for a while before giving Spook his cold, slightly psychotic smile.

"I bet you know what the drawings are about, huh?" he chuckled darkly. Spook said nothing, out of fear. "Oh, you don't need to answer," went on Darren the smile growing wider and worse, "I know you do. Well, have a seat, my friend."

Spook tried not to wince at the way Darren said "my friend" and did as he was told. Darren sat near him, gazing at the notebook. Eventually he took a deep breath and looked over at Spook. Spook tried to avoid his eyes, but Darren did his usual "look-at-me-or-die" sort of expression and he had no other choice but to obey.

Darren gave him a simple, yet very confusing answer: "It is the reason I am what I am." He flashed Spook another of his freaky smiles and got up, leaving the room without another word.

The illusionist sat on the bed, still and afraid beyond words. Then he started shivering and coughing and crying. He had no idea what made him do all these things, but Darren had always had this "talent" which he would use to make him feel weird, or do weird things.

Darren gave a low laugh as he heard quiet sobs coming from his and Spook's dorm-room. Oh, how fun it was to simply terrorize the latter, to watch him quiver in fear...

People thought Darren was the shadow of Spook, who was superior, who was better than him. But they were so wrong.

Spook was Darren's shadow, hiding the terror behind his stuck-up façade. Darren wanted it like that – he wanted people to think that he was the inferior, when in fact he controlled Spook like a puppet.

Spook had thought that himself for awhile, before Darren showed him "who was boss". Darren kept a low profile with other Colas, but with Spook he was the master; and Spook was the obedient, scared little servant.

Back in the dorm, Spook had stopped shaking and sobbing and was quite sill and impassive. Again he felt the urge to look at Darren's notebook and so he did, even more afraid than before. He skipped to the last page and his breath caught in his throat.

On the page were three simple words, but with so much meaning: _This is war._

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**XD Pretty weird ending, huh? Everything will be explained in the next chapter, the continuation or whatever it's gonna be. Anyhow, if you have any character after the… "Darren's secret arc"… that you want done, then tell me! (I'll do them all eventually, don't worry.) Oh, and if it's Dax or Spook (yeah, Spook) or Barry or Clive, then can you please give me an idea, in a PM, but not a review? Obviously, the next will be Dax...(what is so awesome about him, anyway?) so I need ideas for him too! PM not a review, because it would just spoil it for everyone else.**

**Thanks for reading, and do tell me if it sucked or not in a review! :D**

**~Trippy**

**PS. Pretty pathetic name, I know...anyone got ideas...?**


	2. Omen

**Ah, I was thinking the other day whether to continue Darren's arc, or leave it like it is…? And you know what? I'll terrorise you by making you imagine what happens next. No continuation. :P Also, 'cause I'm lazy, also 'cause it's fun, also 'cause I'm sadistic (insert evil laugh)! Now it's Lisa's turn, 'cause I've had an idea with her for some time...  
Disclaimer: Forgot to add this in the last chapter; do not own SS, or any characters.  
Warning: Character death.**

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_Lisa_

2. Omen

Lisa saw it—she felt it. It was like a dark cloud literally hanging above them all, darkening their lit and happy faces, and making them seem like gloomy masks of pain and torture and complete cluelessness.

She tried to ignore the feeling. It was fogging her visions, and taking her mind off the important things. She could barely write anymore SCNs without the feeling just coming to her, filling her with dread and anxiety. Most of the time it came when spirits called to her, begging and asking for an answer, seeming so pathetically scared. She didn't know exactly what it was that came along with her unwanted visitors—but it was like the sensation of going to a funeral. It made her eyes water, and formed a lump in her throat every time she thought about it. She guessed it was probably a sort of omen, either sent by Sylv or some other spirit.

But when she asked her spirit guide, the dead woman would shake her head, and tell her it was probably nothing. Lisa had wanted to believe that—and she had for months and months. But after last year, after Catherine's death, the seemingly gone threat—a kind of happily empty hole—would start to refill with another and another and another one. The omen was like a stretch of black, just widening every time she talked to spirits and worse of all, her friends.

And after months of struggling to figure it out, she knew that they were so oblivious it hurt to think about it. Whatever was awaiting them, it wasn't nice or anything. It was the worst thing; worse even than Catherine, Patrick Wood, Eades, or any other thing they'd been through. She didn't know how she knew; she just did.

The omen appeared again in her dreams. It was that patch of black, not talking but its colour sending a message: _Warning._

What was it warning her about? About hell coming true? About everything just falling and turning grey and cold?

Later that night she stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to get rid of these feelings. They were just...

"Lisa?" said a voice softly. She blinked and looked over at Jennifer's bed. The girl was staring dazed at her, her face ghostly pale, and her body shaking. She had at least two thick blankets on, but her teeth were still chattering as if she were cold.

"Jennifer? Are—are you okay?" Lisa asked, frowning. Jennifer blinked a few times, and smiled weakly.

"Yeah, I'm—" she sneezed loudly, and shivered even more violently "—fine," she said, gasping as if it were a struggle.

"Are you sure?"

Jennifer nodded, and leaned back on her pillow, mumbling something Lisa distinguished as, "Night" and again the deadly silence was back.

Lisa's heart was beating frantically, her mouth quivering and the square of darkness coming back again, swathing her in its cold arms, and laughing at her callously.

* * *

When she woke up in the morning, she realised she was alone in the dorm, though the door was open, and voices were screaming and pleading outside. She quickly got out of bed, and immediately stopped when she saw what the commotion was about.

Jennifer was on the ground, barely breathing; her usually tanned face now sallow and lifeless. Her body was still as though she _were _dead. Mia, Mrs Sartre, Dax, Darren and Spook were all there; the healer and principal were urging for the girl to wake up, but she wouldn't. Spook seemed shocked, and Darren's face was impassive and cold—like Lisa remembered it. Mrs Sartre and Dax were on the verge of tears, and a great sadness hid in Mia's now strangely dark eyes.

"What—what's going on?" Lisa whispered, and only Dax looked up. He shook his head.

"She—"

"She's very sick," said Mrs Sartre, her voice losing all its authority. It was small and tiny, like a lost child's.

That moment a draughty wave of understanding hit her, nearly drowning her in tears. Mia was now kneeling beside the girl, and healing her; Mrs Sartre didn't even try to stop her.

The Colas there waited, their breaths held, as the healer tried and tried, and kept urging her to wake up.

After what seemed like an hour, a look on Mia's settled. It was horrible—cold, disbelieving, and with such wretchedness, it was like nothing Lisa had ever seen. Mia's hands fell on either side of her, and her breathing was hitched and fast. Jennifer had stopped moving; she wasn't breathing. She was...

"Dead," whispered Mia, in a barely audible voice. "She's..."

They stood stock-still, just gaping at Jennifer's lifeless face. It wasn't peaceful, as people usually said. It wasn't that type of look which sent an odd relief deep down; just because you knew they were off "to a better place". It was just...cold.

* * *

A year, Lisa thought, burying her face in her hands. A year had passed since Jennifer's...Jennifer's...She couldn't even think the word. Just thinking her _name _brought back guilt and grief.

Guilt...she could have done something. She _could _have. She had felt it—she had known, subconsciously, that it was going to happen. Why hadn't she searched, deeper? Why hadn't she told Mrs Sartre? She only told the principal a year after, and it was pointless now. Jennifer was gone...

The funeral had been bleak, and with many people, all Jenny's family and friends. Her father had threatened to sue Fenton Lodge, but Mrs Sartre had calmed him down—sort of.

Since then the Colas weren't the same. It was like a puzzle missing an important piece; it wasn't the same "True Eleven, plus one". It was just the "True Ten, plus one". Barry was most affected, and because of that so was Clive. Barry wouldn't go after cake or anything anymore—he would just stare into space thinking, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. And it was her fault.

Mia had tried to coax her out of this, not even sure what her guilt was about, but it was in vain. Lisa could not forget, and could never forgive—she held a grudge for a long time. And now she was holding a grudge over herself.

That night, exactly the night in which Jennifer had gotten sick a year ago, Lisa lay unable to fall asleep—again. Mia's breathing was so soft and peaceful; it was weird to think she could be so cold and sad when awake.

Lisa closed her eyes, wishing sleep would claim her. Instead that darkness did. It was like a dark picture, in a bright hall—or rather austere hall, because ever since the event, Lisa saw everything half-lit.

Their faces, which had been on full-power, had now lost a bit of the brightness. Only Lisa saw it though.

The black thing spoke again, the same word: _Warning. _

"Not again," she murmured, nearly crying. "Please—not again."

But it had different plans. It laughed its maniac laugh, and absorbed her in.

And her feeling came true later that week. Not death; at least not absolute sure death.

Luke was in a coma once more. He wouldn't wake up. His breathing was shallow. No one knew whether he was going to live. The Colas, especially Gideon (for whom Lisa felt a sympathy she never thought she would), were all put out. Gideon was now nearly like Barry—all life gone from him. His cheerfulness gone; Lisa found herself missing his daft jokes.

* * *

Another year passed, and the cloud grew wider, like a grin; waiting to gobble them all up and make Lisa watch and suffer. She didn't tell anyone anymore about it; it'd be pointless, and just bring back her sorrow. Instead she sat in the back of the class usually, quiet, like everyone else. One day, in the common room, she looked around and thought she saw the grin, the omen, the thing causing everything settle on the Teller brothers, the only ones still with a sense of humour, which was dark most of the time.

Lisa wanted to warn them to be careful, but the darkness caught her tongue and would not allow her to speak. So when that night she got the same message from it, she wasn't surprised.

Or when Alex and Jacob passed away.

_What a pathetic way_, Lisa thought listening to Mrs Sartre trying to explain it through tears. _Such a sad way to go. _She had always imagined the brothers dying at an old age, laughing even when death took them away from the world; their deaths to be painless and quick.

But they were pain_ful _and slow. A car accident. That was what happened—a car accident killed them. How could a mere accident end the life of a Cola—how could _anything _end a life of a Cola? It seemed ridiculous that Jennifer and the brothers didn't die at the hands of Catherine, but in such simple, yet painful ways. The brothers had been in comas, along with Luke; but whereas the telekinetic still breathed, they didn't.

Another year, another funeral, she thought. Another year, another dreadful thing.

"Who's next?" she whispered at their memorial service. And as she looked around, the dark enveloped Clive.

* * *

The next year, they found the boy's body in a warehouse, cuts and scratches and blood covering him up. Mrs Sartre said she thought it was because some people had kidnapped Clive, demanding money and to know about Cola Club—Clive, being the tactless, not-speaking fool he was, was then tortured, raped, and beaten to death. Though the other Colas hadn't seen his face or body, Lisa imagined it against her will—the dark was shoving the picture under her nose, to show her what she could have prevented, but didn't. Why couldn't she talk? Why couldn't she warn them?

Maybe it _was _because the dark wouldn't let her; but either way she had to stop all these deaths. If not the next to die would maybe be her.

Mia, she thought, and tried to telling the healer.

"What is it, Lees?" Mia asked her voice low and full with sorrow. Lisa blinked, and the dark stopped her talking again. She shook her head, and looked away ignoring the tears of defeat falling down her face.

She tried to look for the dark cloud, but it didn't appear for a long time. She thought she should be relived; but its absence only made her anxiety grow even more.

But she didn't need the dark to help her, she realised. Barry was under a tree, the moon outlining his cold face perfectly. It was night-time and even Dax had given up on his foxtrot after Jake and Alex's deaths, Mrs Sartre afraid to lose yet another one.

Lisa reluctantly went outside, shivering—it was July, but it felt like the middle of autumn. She walked towards him, until she was a few feet away from him. The moon did shaft a light on him, but it was a kind of dark bright light. Like a beam which rather wouldn't be there.

He didn't look up at her, but she heard him muttering to himself. She just stood and stared at him, the dark not letting her to move or stop him from the act she knew he would perform even before he did.

_No! _her mind screamed, but her mouth was shut tight and tears already beginning to form. He looked up at her finally, and gave her one last cold smile, and she finally saw he was holding a knife in his hand. The blade was already dripping with blood—and Barry raised it slowly to his chest, gulping and crying silently.

Lisa closed her eyes, but she still saw the way he thrust it in his heart, and even heard the soundless scream he gave. She saw it, and the image remained with her, especially at the funeral. She had no idea how she'd gotten back up to her room, but she did, and the dark began chuckling again.

* * *

She had thought that it would take year's difference that they would die, but Barry committed suicide a few months after Clive's death. A few weeks before Lisa's birthday.

Now she was "celebrating" her belated 17th birthday at home, nearly a year after, with Mia. Gideon and Dax hadn't come—they'd said they needed time or something, After all, Barry had been one of their closest friends from before; and Luke was still in a coma, not quite alive or dead (as usual, Lisa thought glumly) and he was Gideon's brother, and Dax was also mourning over Clive, who had been his best friend before.

Only Mia decided to come along to her house, and the girls did nothing but eat, drink, sleep and talk in whispers as if afraid that their deaths would come only from an uttered word. Lisa's father was very sympathetic and sad; Jennifer had visited a few times and he'd liked her.

Finally, after a week, it seemed as though Mia totally lost it. When they woke up, Lisa saw a strange determination in her eyes.

"We can't go on like this," she said her voice hard and as defiant as her eyes. "I mean, I know these last few years have been...well, you know, but mourning and moaning will not help."

Lisa shrugged, and although she knew her words were right didn't say anything.

"Lisa," Mia said, and her tone was so fierce and unlike hers Lisa had to glance up. "We're—we're going to the movies or something. I...I can't take this anymore...all this sulking..."

"Yeah, well, you seem to be pretty ignorant about it," Lisa muttered coldly.

"What do you mean?" asked Mia, narrowing her now black eyes. Lisa snorted.

"You haven't cried at all, have you? It's easy for _you _to get over it," she said, her waspish tone returning. "But you have _no idea_."

"Well, if you _said _something then maybe I would have any idea!"

"Look who's talking, Miss I-never-tell-anyone-anything. You nearly killed yourself, you idiot; and instead of just saying that your father was having a drinking problem, you decided to play the whiney brat and want for others to help you."

Lisa was just as surprised as Mia looked, at what she was saying. But it wasn't her saying these things—and with a cold thud of her heart, she realised it was the dark.

"Although I don't blame you," Lisa went on, sneering now, and reminding herself horribly of when she and Dax had had to annoy Mia. "I mean, _I _would be ashamed with having such a father too, you know. Getting drunk all the time—you must have been a sad child. Though you most likely deserved it. You're nothing but a little, do-nothing, useless, and heartless psycho—you deserve to die along with Catherine."

And her facial muscles turned into a tight sugary smile, which she screamed at to fade. But the job was done anyway. Mia was literally fuming, and the air was beginning to become hot, though a fire wasn't lit.

"I—" Mia started saying, but stopped and walked out of the house, slamming every day she came upon. Lisa watched her body disappear in the half-dark morning gloom, and sighed, a sob escaping.

_She's next, _laughed the dark cruelly, and she knew it was true—and now it really _was _going to be her fault.

* * *

Only it turned out, a week later, it wasn't only Mia—Spook went with her. Lisa guessed that she'd met him along the way, and they'd probably went to the city—at least that's what the principal said—and had gotten shot by some people who'd seen Mia lighting a flame inadvertently. They'd wanted to shoot her first, but Spook got the bullet instead. And Mia followed shortly after that.

No one seemed surprised anymore—losing so many people had already brought them enough experience. Yes, they were even more sad (that being an understatement) but those happenings were definitely not unexpected. Lisa wished she could just defeat the dark, but she couldn't. She couldn't fight it—it was too much.

At Fenton Lodge, the few Colas remaining (apart from Luke, who had not recovered even after three years...he was dead anyway, Lisa thought), Lisa, Gideon, Dax, and Darren were sitting in class or in the common room, saying nothing. They avoided each other's eyes. The teachers were just as bad, maybe even worse. No, Lisa was the worst.

Her hair was sticking out in all directions, her face pale and unhealthy, she didn't go out running, and she just felt like crying every second. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her...this darkness coming. She sometimes even preferred Catherine or something to the dark.

_I'm not leaving any time soon, _the black patch told her, whenever she tried to fall asleep.

* * *

Lisa closed her eyes, and the tears flowed freely on her face as his father tried to speak but could not. Gideon was shaking beside her, and Darren was still as stone. And when Lisa opened her eyes again, she saw Gina looking shocked—and Alice actually sobbing. But what point was there anyway, to cry? Like Mia had said—they couldn't live like this all the time.

_But do I have another choice_? Lisa thought, and sighed. Luke's funeral had been enough for that year—and now Dax's just made her want to break down, and scream at the damned darkness to leave her alone.

"D-Dax," Gideon whispered. Lisa looked at him, and knew what he was thinking and feeling; he'd lost the two people he cared most in the same year. Lisa put her hand on his shoulder, and wished that Mia were here to comfort him—but Mia was gone, as was Dax, losing to a bunch of wolves who ripped him apart. Funny how wolf-boy used to help him, and he was killed by his kind.

Who was next, Lisa wondered? Darren or Gideon—or both? She silently prayed for the rest of their deceased friends, and for them, knowing it was hopeless, but trying anyway.

* * *

No deaths occurred for a few years. She was now 23, still living with her father, Gideon and Darren still well—for now. Maurice was worried about her, as she only stayed locked in her room, not doing anything but sulk. She knew she should do what Mia had said, so long yet so little time ago, but the dark wanted her to stay and mope and do nothing.

This secret...she had kept it against her will. She didn't know what was causing her to keep it, but she hated it. Maybe Catherine's spirit? No, Catherine would have killed Mia at the end. Patrick Wood would have kept Dax for the end or Owen and...

Lisa shot up in her bed—Owen! Owen and Tyrone! They...they were in Spain, right? Why didn't she visit them or something? Grinning for once in a while, though she didn't know why, she went to Maurice and told him the idea—he was a bit reluctant sending his daughter with some men he didn't know, but the eager look on Lisa's face made him give up.

Oh, if only, she hadn't done that.

* * *

Three years later, she decided to go back and see what Darren and Gideon were doing when she found out—surprise, surprise—Gideon was gone. Dead. Her happy mood which she had been given back in the last years went down when she heard from Paulina Sartre that yet another of her classmates was dead, and she was too late to see his funeral.

She now stood in front of his tombstone, the other Colas' graves standing high and clear, despite their tragic deaths.

She stared at each of them, the words blurred because of the tears in her eyes. She saw the names, but that was it.

Suddenly she fell on her knees, and sobbed. Sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. She hadn't cried so much before; usually a lot of silent tears, but now the sobs just escaped, but not against her will. She wanted to just cry her heart out, to get it over and done with. And as she did, memories came back to her...

Dax, Mia, Gideon, Luke, Barry, Jennifer, the Tellers, Spook, Spock...all of them...

_No! No! No! No! No!_

Next was Darren, she was sure of it. Darren...now that she thought about it, he had been the most careless. Yes, at Spook's funeral he'd cried (something which Lisa never thought possible), but at the rest he'd kept his impassive face on. It was...he was...

"Right behind you," said a voice, and she gasped and turned around. Darren was standing there, tall and darker than ever. His eyes were still their same depthless black, and his mop of black hair had grown slightly longer. His dark skin shone in the light of the moon, but no cloud covered him...He seemed almost normal; well, as normal as Darren got.

"Darren," Lisa gasped out, surprised. He said nothing to her, and instead walked to Spook's grave. He knelt in front of it, and read the words, while a small smile stretched upon his lips, cold and mirthless. His finger traced the stone, and he kept muttering the words to himself. Lisa gaped at him all awhile. Then he sighed and stood back up, shaking his head. Lisa saw him take a notebook out of his pocket, and place it in the grass near it, opened at a certain page. Lisa got up and peered at it.

_This is war, _was written there, but she had no idea what it meant. It just made her shiver, and gasp when she finally understood. Darren was smiling at her now, a sick smile.

"Y-_you_," she murmured in grotesque fascination. He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Not quite me, you know," he said in his low voice. "The red-haired idiot," he nodded at the tombstone, "he started it all."

"But he was your _friend_!" Lisa exclaimed. He glanced at her, and regarded her through his cold, black eyes.

"Was he?" he whispered. "It says that a traitor shall look in this notebook—and shall bring grief and death upon the land. He did, and he got what he deserved."

"What are you _talking _about?"

Darren shook his head. "I found the notebook one day at home. It was buried somewhere, and I happened to find it. It was weird and alluring, and I just found myself curious. So I opened it. Words were there. Sentences. Phrases. Short stories. Many obscure things. Made no sense. When I showed it to Dad he said he just saw some drawings, and he thought I'd drawn them. Said they were weird drawings, stuff like death and all. I told him there was something written, and he thought I'd lost it. I was mad. He wouldn't listen. No one would. So I just took the book, and read it all—and you know what it said? _My life_," his eyes gleamed dangerously now. "My life was written there like some sort of oracle. And at a moment it said something that the person who calls himself my friend shall die at the hand of it—and take some of my other friends with him. I tried to hide it away from the idiot, but he found it anyway. He also saw only the images; but that wasn't it which caused this. It was the last line."

Lisa glanced again at the words and they caused her to shiver.

"You mean..._they _caused the death?"

Darren smirked at her. "No," he said. "I did. It's my oracle. It's my life. I found it, and became addicted, especially after I read the last line. And _I_'m the one who caused them all to die—kind of."

"But—but you just said—" Lisa spluttered, but he held his hand up.

"I said take _some _of my friends—well, classmates, whatever you want to call them. But I decided to let them all go, because, hey, they're annoying and not even dear to me. You might not know this, but Dad's dead too, strangely, as is my uncle. But I didn't cause his death. I think you know who." He tilted to his head to one side, and smiled at her as anger contorted on her face.

"How...how _could _you?" she gasped.

"Simple," he answered. "I sent you that darkness you keep talking about—it was quite fun having you try to figure it out." He chuckled; it was like a dry and cold wind.

Lisa's eyes widened.

"I...who _are _you?"

"Not _who_ I am. _What _I am. I'm a...bringer of death, it says in the book. An omen—sort of."

The smile was thin and made Lisa want to just punch him. And she did.

Her fist was thrust forward but he caught it with a yawn. "What? You think by punching me it'll help? You are _such an idiot_, Lisa." She started struggling to punch him, but he just shrugged and took the blows without so much as a flinch.

She was panting heavily when she realised it was pointless. It didn't hurt him—he was a sort of...pain-deflector.

"Huh? Are you done?" he said suddenly as if he had just woken up. She scowled at him, but didn't move or try anything—his grip on her fist was strong. "Lisa, do you wanna know something?" he said out of the blue. "Why—of course you do. Remember our dear old principal? I'm sure you do. He was a manipulative man." He smiled again. "I admired him very much—my uncle, you know. And Dax went off and killed him, along with Owen. Of course, unfortunately, I cannot kill Hind or Tyrone, which is a shame, seeing as I hate them both. I got my glamour from him. Which is what I used to conjure up that darkness you like thinking about."

"But—but—"

Darren rolled his eyes, and glared into hers. "No, Spook was _not _better than me—I like pretending. It was fun, you know, to make you all think he was better and such. I set the shadow upon them all, to warn you a bit about what would happen. It's just," he shrugged and said what was on her mind, "I know you'd been through a lot, so why not?" He pulled her towards him, like in a dance, and their faces were close to the other. "I like watching you suffer," he whispered. "It's nice—fun. I would have tried Mia, but no—I wanted you, the conceited snob to see how it is. I tried to prevent Luke's death, you know. I quite liked him. But I couldn't; oh well."

Darren gave her a smirk, worse even than anyone else's, and let her go. She could only gawp at him, her eyes wide—and then hateful.

"You—you _traitor_," she hissed. "You _traitorous bastard_!"

"Ah, but am I?"

Lisa lunged at him again, and, once more, he didn't feel anything. She punched him until blood dripped from his nose, from his cheek, but he didn't care. She kicked at his shins, at every part of him; still no reaction.

"Will you please cut it out?" he asked irritably. "I'm getting bored, and want to go home. Or do you really want to die?" He backed away from her, and she stopped. "Good. Now, Lees, I've gotta go home. Have a nice day." He smiled once more at her, and turned around. Lisa watched him, and heard him whistling to himself. She wanted to die here and now—to end this pain she was feeling. Darren...Darren...she had been so wrong about him and now...

_Live with it, Lees, _said the dark. _It'll pass anyway._

And she heard it laugh as it claimed her again, and brought back the dreadful images of her friends' deaths.

* * *

**O.o I'm gonna let you guys comment on my recent "master piece"... ;) If you have any ideas for the others, please PM me! (And yes, the last chapter and this are sort of connected...but the rest won't be). And sorry for any mistakes or anything, but I'm a bit too lazy to proof-read right now...**

**Thanks for reading! :D**

**~Trippy**


	3. wood and warmth

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one – it all belongs to Ali Sparkes.**_

_**Warning/s: child abuse, disturbing themes.**_

_**AN: Sorry I haven't updated this in a while (over a year!) so here's a dark and creepy one to make up for all that time. Heed the warning. Seriously. If you can't take that sort of thing, best to ignore/skip this. Takes place before and during FTF. **_

* * *

_Mia_

3. wood and warmth

It's the epitome of innocence at first. Comforting. Nothing else.

_ (_and it's kinda nice 'cause it's all _warm)_

His fingertips are warm when they reach forward to touch the back of her hand, and he smiles gently at her, and talks in a low, soothing voice explaining this and that and she can't help but stare.

He's warm. That's all it is. His smile is warm, his dark eyes are warm, and his body is warm when he lingers behind her and stands close enough his chest nearly touches her elbow, and then says something like _you can leave now _and she closes her eyes and does as he tells her.

(because she listens to people)

XXX

She listens when someone whines or complains. Listens to the slow, struggled it-doesn't-hurt-but-it-does of their breathing when she places her hand over a scraped ankle or bruised arm and smiles up at them, and they just stare.

She listens to what she's told to do. Especially by an authority.

So when he calls her in, _I need to talk to you_, and she's fidgety because _I failed my last math test_, he only smiles at her again and tells her he'll help.

He used to be a math teacher. Apparently.

Sums and divisions and multiplying and subtraction and natural numbers, and in a week she knows it all.

Knows how much three times twenty three is by heart. Knows how much two to the third power is. Even learns about integers, even though they're not supposed to learn them until next year.

(learns that three fingers on her shoulder and two more against her waist makes a total of five slits of skin touching her)

XXX

The first day she's there (_when he's oh so warm_), the room smells of burning wood and smoke and a breeze of thin cologne and maybe there's even the slightest whiff of perfume, amid all the masculinity.

The next, it smells the same.

And the next. And the next.

When he's leaning over her, hand on her shoulder, face close to hers, showing her how this exercise should have been done, she finds he smells of wood and warmth, too.

A month later, he smells of sweat.

XXX

"I'm hurt," he says once, and then smiles at her confusion, at her frown.

She doesn't get it. He's a teacher, the principal no less. Teachers are against students healing. Right?

But she doesn't voice this thought, and "Where?" she asks, because she's well, _Mia, _and she's known to helping people. Always. Regardless.

His smile widens, and maybe it's her exhaustion, maybe it's the last dose of healing that touches the back of her eyes and the bloodless patch of skin of her ankle, but it flickers for a bit. His eyes flicker.

They're warm, normally, kind, skin around them defined, wrinkled with smiles and middle age. They're the colour of brown wood, sprinkled with lighter shades around his small pupils. Now they're dark and they're hot, the colour of burning coal, outlining the contour of his dilated pupils.

He holds his arm out, twists it around. She catches her breath, stares, then breathes out and slides her fingers against the thin white scar on his inner wrist, and pretends the sigh he gives is one of relief, and not pleasure.

(because she knows how to lie)

XXX

She _does _and she's actually good at it.

When she heals Owen, once (not because he lets her, but he's kinda caught off guard), she shuts her eyes briefly and draws in a steady breath and stands back and he looks at her, blue eyes dark with concern, with rebuke, but he only asks if she's okay, and she smiles and nods. He doesn't look convinced.

Then he steps forward, body next to hers, touches her shoulder, and she flinches, recoils. When he frowns, wonders why, she just brushes it off as it being from too much exertion.

He's still not convinced.

But he doesn't know the real reason either, so yup, whew, she thinks, _she's still got it._

XXX

His hand only ever slides against her shirt, coat, jeans, and maybe, _maybe_, the tips of his fingers sometimes brush on a bit of skin when her shirt happens to ride up and he's talking to her about the next winter vacation, and whether she wants to stay or go home.

She wants to go home. Wants to see her father, wants to get rid of some of the God-awful pain residing in her bones and muscles and on the surface of her pale skin, but his eyes are _dark _again, and now they're hard too, so he makes her repeat her answer when she finds that her voice is too quiet, scared, for him to hear or understand.

He doesn't smile. He scowls, a bit, looks unhappy and dismisses her with a wave of hand before she's able to open her mouth to apologise

(for _what_, she doesn't know, but he looks disappointed and angry and hurt)

and, for once in months, she's afraid.

XXX

Two weeks later, he's back to his normal, smiley, warm self and she's more relieved than she'd have thought, and that helps ease the pain a bit after healing a broken arm.

His hand is still warm, she finds, but his voice is quiet and admonishing and a bit tight when he calls her in and shakes her head, because – whaddya know – she's failed at math, _again_.

She grimaces, laughs a bit, but he looks at her, eyes serious, and licks his lips and tells her to meet every Tuesday in an empty classroom so he can tutor her.

She wonders, as she leaves, whether he said tutor or touch.

XXX

During the first tutoring lesson, he wears short sleeves despite the fact that it's the middle of January and the classroom they're in is as cold as death, and she sees a red tear across his skin. He doesn't react when she heals it. Just smiles a bit, maybe.

The next, it's shorts, ridiculous shorts that don't suit the cold, or him, but that reveal a bruise on his knee so she inadvertently leans forward and touches her hand to it, and watches the black and blue pattern fade slowly.

Then she feels him looking at her, stops, breath stuck in throat, and glances up to see him smiling at her.

It's not warm. It's not cold. It's not even a smile, more like a leer, and her heart hammers out a steady _thump-thump-thump _when he secures his fingers around her wrist.

She sits there, in the same position, crouched slightly, tense, as he raises her hand up to his lips and brushes them against it.

They're warm. Soft. Painfully so.

Then he pulls back, smiles, apologises and they go back to how much two times twenty three in parenthesis plus six times seven is. It's back to normal.

(but her hands are _trem-trem-trem-trembling_)

XXX

They tremble at every lesson, from then on. Tremble when he squeezes her shoulder because _good girl, you did it _or when his warm, heavy breath buffets against her neck when she finds he's staring intently at her as she scribbles out the answer to the equation.

When she's done, he smiles _good girl, _and nods for her to move onto the next.

Only she can't, and she's frozen into her seat, staring at his jeans, at the rip in his upper thigh, and then she swallows, because there's a bulge in there. She tries hard not to touch him when her

_ trembling_

hand heals the wound, but he still tenses beside her, hard chest against her elbow, breath hitching slightly.

He touches her face then. It's light, it's warm, but it hurts almost as much as when he moves her hand to his crotch, and keeps it there, and whispers in a hard, low whisper _"heal"_ (and she listens, she always does)and then _"good girl" _and then that smile-leer again.

XXX

He does that a few times. Makes her touch him. Never touches her.

Until once, when she's wearing a skirt, and his hand happens to skirt up her thigh, a finger slipping under her panties, and then all she remembers is his skin on her, _in _her, eyes dark and hot and hard, and painfully tender fingers pressing against her tear-streaked cheek, and the scent of wood and cologne and sweat thick in the air.

XXX

By the end of January, she's best in her class at math. Gets the highest scores at every test, studies as hard as she can, even studies the things they'll be doing next year.

He calls her in, once, and his lips are pressed in a thin line, eyes stern, angry, but she smiles and then he grimaces in a would-be smile and tells her _congratulations on your results _and she thanks him.

He looks like he wants to kill someone when she leaves.

XXX

She swallows hard, rests her palms on the sink, resists the urge to avert her gaze from her reflection.

White. White is all she sees; the bright, almost blinding white of the sink, the white tiles surrounding her, and even the water pouring out of a broken pipe looks white.

Most of all, _she's_ white.

She's always been pale, unhealthily so, but now it's like her face blends in with the decor of the out-of-service bathroom, and the sight makes her sick.

Her limbs feel like lead, her head is aching and pounding a dull _dum-dum-dum-dum_, and the unseen injures scattered around her body flare up in pain so, so powerful she hurls the fruit salad and stew and pasta she ate at dinner down the drain.

The vomit glints off of the white sink. It hurts to look at.

(many things hurt nowadays)

She takes comfort in others' pain, because it's nice to know that others suffer too, and it's not just her, and while it's not the same as what he (_still_) does to her, it's almost better.

She feels better when someone comes to her with a headache or cold or broken bone, and her hand presses against them (_never really touching_), and they give a sigh of relief and the pain steadily builds under her skin.

It feels so good she continues to do it.

_ (she feels so good he continues to do it)_

XXX

There's something sweet in the pain floating around her broken-but-not ribs as she lies there, eyes on the ceiling, everyone bustling about her. Caroline Fisher cries somewhere next to her. Dax Jones tears up a bit.

Owen tells Gideon and Lisa and Spook about him.

He's dead.

Down a tin mine.

The pain and the relief put her to sleep in seconds.

She cries a bit too, maybe.

XXX

Afterwards, she doesn't really let people touch her. The healers, once, because they had to, but not Dax or Lisa or Jessica or Gideon or Owen, and no one else.

Only Spook once, when they're outside, and she's finally out of the sanatorium and he's looking at her, amber eyes wide and concerned, lower lip caught between his teeth.

_Are you okay? _he asks her, and she closes her eyes, leans back against the tree.

There's no more pain in her bones, but her skin burns where he would touch her, and the burn's somewhere inside her too. But yes, she thinks she's fine, so she turns to him and smiles.

He reaches forward, covers her hand with his. She flinches, he frowns, and then something like knowledge flashes in his gaze.

He knows, she realises then, with the dark look and the tightening of his jaw, and he looks away, and she leans forward, hesitates and then tells him.

She tells him everything – from the innocent, kindly touches, to the healing, even to the wood and cologne smell, and the warmth, and the sweat, and the pain of it all, and Spook listens intently, because it turns out he does know, and then he reaches forward again and grips her hand, looking solemn.

She grips it back, blinks back the moisture in her eyes, and then leans forward and kisses him.

It's sweet, and it's painful, and his lips mould against hers, just a light pressure, then she pulls back and smiles, taking his hand again.

His skin feels cold against hers. He smells of detergent and darkness and brokenness.

He's comfort, she realises. The best sort.


End file.
